Somewhere on a Desert Highway
by GoodfortheSoul
Summary: Takes place thirteen years post-Chosen. Buffy never returned to Sunnydale after running away to LA at the end of season two. She is working at a diner somewhere on a desert highway, when a figure from her past unexpectedly appears.
1. Chapter 1

**Takes place thirteen years post-Chosen. Buffy never returned to Sunnydale after running away to LA at the end of season two. She is working at a diner somewhere on a desert highway, when a figure from her past unexpectedly shows up. Inspired by Neil Young's "Unknown Legend." **

**Somewhere on a Desert Highway**

At least in this place they didn't make you wear polyester.

Russ, her boss, had told her to wear whatever she wanted. She just had to look "presentable." His word. Not hers. "Presentable." The way he had said it, leering at her, making her feel so exposed, had made his meaning clear. She has had crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself, protecting herself, trying to block his cold, calculating eyes.

Not that she wasn't used to men looking at her like that. She had grown way too used to it. Accepted it. It was part of the job. But she hated it still.

"We tend to get a lot of men stopping here," he explained, eyeing her lewdly. "We want to give them something nice to look at. Something easy on the eyes after all of those miles of sand and dust and nothing but the road." His gaze ran up and down her body again and she felt violated, dirty. "You'll do nicely. Not every day a pretty girl like you moves to a small town like this."

Beth had left his office convinced that she would not be long for this place. Not if she had to deal with that every day. But she had needed to take the job. She needed money. Couldn't get much further on what she had. Once she had saved a bit though, then she would be gone. On the road and running again.

She had spent last half of her life running. Running away. At one point she thought she had something to run to. But that delusion had slipped away with the years. There was nothing to run to. Never had been. Only the running away. And it had been so long now she wasn't even sure what she was running away from. But it had become a habit. And those things were hard to break.

Not like bones and hearts and people.

Those were all way too fragile. Broke too easily and were too hard to fix. Better just to keep running. It was the only way she had found to keep herself together.

At first she had run to the cities. L.A. Chicago. Seattle. Atlanta. Phoenix. Boston. Cleveland (She had only stayed a week. It had reminded her way too much of home. Hellmouthy and everything.) Detroit. Denver. New York.

It was easy to lose yourself in a city. All those people too concerned about their own lives to even glance at you. In cities, you could become anonymous. Just another face in the crowd that rushed past every day.

It was easy to find work too. The places she applied to, they didn't ask a lot of questions. Figured her for another runaway. Or, as she got older, another single mother or ex-junkie trying to keep out of trouble, keep sober, keep clean. They didn't want to hear her story, so they never asked. Which was more than fine by her, because she didn't want to tell it.

After all, it was her story that kept her running.

But it did seem like she could ever run fast enough.

Some how it always seemed to catch up with her. Somehow someone would find out who she was, what she was, and then it would be time for her to move on. To run away again.

The sun hung over the horizon as she walked into the dinner. Blue jeans and a black v-neck tee-shirt. Hair pulled back in a simple braid. That was the uniform she decided on. It was simple and practical and at least it wasn't polyester.

"Hey Bethy," Rob, the line cook, called to her. He worked the night shift. Nora worked the day. Despite the difference in gender they were remarkably similar. Round, loud, warm, and with a laugh that thawed even her iciness.

"Hey Rob," she responded with a smile.

"You know I can't handle that smile of yours, girl," he grinned. "Captures my heart every time. Tell me you'll marry me Bethy."

"You ask me that every night, and the answer is always the same, Rob."

"I know, I know. Somebody done wrong by you girl. Still, every night, breaks my heart." He finished clutching his hands to his chest and wheezing with laughter.

That was how he always said hello to her. His own bizarre little ritual. At first she had been uncomfortable with the whole thing, the confession of love, the marriage proposal. Until she realized that he greeted all of the waitresses that way. It was always the smile that captured him and the answer that broke him.

It was always that way, wasn't it? Begin with a smile. End with a broken heart.

Life would have been so much easier for her if she had given up smiling years ago.

"What are the specials tonight?"

"Made me some delicious chowder. And I think I'll whip up some fried chicken and waffles. I'm in the mood for a little southern comfort. What do you think about that, Bethy?"

"You make with the cooking, I'll make with the serving. And the eating," she added.

"Girl after my own heart. Are you sure you won't pity an old fool and marry me?"

"Pretty sure, Rob. Besides, I think that Renee totally has the hots for you. Wouldn't want to step on her toes," she winked and left the kitchen, the sound of Rob's booming laughter following her into the dining room.

"Hiya Beth," Alison greeted her as she stepped into the dining room, securing her apron around her narrow waist.

"Hey Ali," she smiled. Ali was a small birdlike brunette. She had three kids at home and a handsome blond husband who worked at the town's hardware store. The way Ali told it they had been the classic cliché of high school sweethearts. The quarter back and the head cheerleader. They had married young, had kids younger, had gotten trapped, stuck in this small town. Now, they both worked double and triple shifts and barely had enough to get by. Still, they seemed happy, if completely exhausted.

And at least Ali was nice to work the night shift with. She was cheerful, although Beth wondered how she could keep up her schedule. All day at home with the kids. All night at work in the diner. Not at a lot of time for the sleeping.

Beth slept for most of the day. She would get home about four in the morning and pass out until about three in the afternoon. Then it was back to work at five in the afternoon.

Tips were good though, during the graveyard shift, even if there weren't a whole lot of them. Truckers felt bad for them and tipped generously and the work wasn't hard.

(Funny though. There was a time when graveyard shift meant being in an actual graveyard.

But not anymore.

That was a long time ago.)

"How are the kids?" she asked Ali, wanting to avoid those thoughts of the past. They had a nasty tendency of creeping in, of snaring her, of entrapping her when she least expected it. Best to change the mental channel.

"They're great. Sammy lost another tooth today, brought it home from school wrapped in a piece of bloody toilet paper, smiling that big gap-toothed smile of his. And Dean is crawling like a maniac. Can't hardly keep my eye on him. Thank god Elsie started pre-school. Gives me plenty of time to follow Dean all around the house. So, how do you want to do sections?"

"The usual?"

"Works for me."

Each woman took half of the tables. Ali the left half, Beth the right. Some of the other waitresses, like Renee, had more complicated methods of dividing up the table, which they insisted was fairer. So what if you had to be a NASA engineer to figure out the system. And if you messed it up, Renee was likely to bite your head off. Not literally of course.

(There was a time when that would have been literal.

But not any more.)

Dinner service was easy. Rob always got the food out quickly enough that no one had reason to complain, and Beth liked the hectic frenetic pace of the service. There was something in her, something smothered long ago, that craved, needed the adrenaline. And since she had run this was as close as she wanted to get to it.

Any closer and it would be time to run again.

By nine the diner had cleared out. Just one trucker sat hunkered over his pie, shoveling it into his mouth before hitting the road again.

There wasn't much for Beth to do. She and Ali had straightened up after the dinner rush, and now the two of them were facing a long slow night.

That was the trade off. You got to work dinner, which meant good tips, only if you had to endure the night shift. There would be a few customers who would drift in to the diner, hands shaking and eyes bloodshot from caffeine. Guys on deadline who needed to take an half and hour or so to rest their eyes from the road. Take a break. Fuel up their trucks and their stomachs before hitting the next long stretch of pavement and desert and dust.

Everything was so monotonous here. The line of it broken only by the random cacti or rock formation. Everything was brown and flat and lifeless. And the horizon always seemed so far away. It was not the sort of place people lived. It seemed like everyone was just passing through to somewhere else. Somewhere better. Greener, maybe. Definitely more welcoming. This landscape was just so hostile, sterile, dead.

There were communities that had huddled together here. Ali and her husband would never leave. And Nora and Rob were here for good. They had somehow sunk their roots into the dry, cracked, and inhospitable soil and made this place a home.

But Beth had no roots, nothing to hold her to this place. And she knew that soon enough the desert wind would take her up and carry her away.

The trucker stood up took one last long gulp of coffee, touched his two fingers to his cap, a solemn farewell salute that struck Beth oddly-old fashioned and yet somehow appropriate.

Ali yawned as she looked at the clock. "Lord, I cannot believe that it is only 9:30. It's going to be one hell of a long night."

"As opposed to every other night here?" Beth smiled.

"Too true. I don't know why Russ even bothers keeping this place open like this. Doesn't make much sense, if you ask me."

Ali had a point. They never served many customers after nine. But Beth had worked in an enough places like this to know what Russ was thinking. There wasn't anyplace to stop for miles around the diner, and he was counting on the fact that the few drivers who were driving on the old highway would be drawn in by the neon red of the open sign and the promise of a burger and pie and a cup of coffee. It must be working, because Russ didn't seem eager to change the way things were being done.

It didn't bother her. (She was kinda built to be a night owl.)

But she did feel bad for Ali, who went home slept for four hours and then had to be up with her kids by the time their father left for work. She would sneak in a nap when she put the baby down while the older kids were in kindergarten and pre-school. But Dean was sleeping more during the night and less during his mid day naps and it was starting wear on Ali. Her usually thin face was looking especially pinched and the circles under her eyes especially dark.

"You've still have the sleeping bag in your car?" Beth asked the other woman.

Ali looked down guilty. "Yeah. Sure. But I couldn't do that to you again, Beth. It's not fair."

Beth smiled. "Sure it is. You go home to star in the kiddycapades, and I go home to my own snoozapalooza. It's totally fair."

"You shouldn't have to pick up the slack from my personal life."

"And you shouldn't have to suffer because you actually have a personal life. I have recently been declared personal-life-free, so I will keep on eye on the place while you take a much needed nap."

"You should have one. A personal life, I mean. I can see if Josh knows anyone from work... You shouldn't be alone. Especially not in a place like this. The desert. It does things to you, like wrinkles."

Beth laughed. "I look forward to the day when I'm all wrinkly and alone. Living like a hermit in the middle of the desert. Maybe I'll get a few goats to speed the process along, all wrinkly and goaty and alone."

Ali shook her head. "I swear I don't understand you. Why you'd even come to a place like this. This is the sort of place people run away from, they don't wander in and decide to stay."

Beth shrugged, figuring it was best not to confess that she would be running away from here soon enough. That all she did was run. Had been running since she was seventeen. Half a life ago. This place wouldn't hold her. No place did.

But saying this would just lead to more questions. Especially the painful ones about the past that she wouldn't, couldn't answer.

(Because how do you find the words to say that you killed the man you loved. That kissed him, told him you loved him, and then you drove a sword through his chest.

People would look at you like you were dangerous, unstable, nuts.

And explaining that you had to do that in order to save the world, which was about to be dragged into hell by the man that you loved, who had become a man that you couldn't recognize because he had lost his soul when he had had made love to your first time. That the man you loved had become an evil, sadistic killer. A psychopath gunning right for you. Torturing you. Trying to tear you down and crack you up and break you into little tiny pieces, broken fragments of yourself that would be too weak to do what you needed to do, to kill him and save the world. And explaining that you still loved him, still hoped that you could save him, even when he was beating you down to nothing. Tearing out your heart and laughing the whole time. Explaining that you loved him even then, and that you drove that sword through his heart the moment that it was yours again, in the moment that he was the man who loved you again, soul restored by a teenage witch, you killed him to save the world. Explaining that that had hurt you more than anything he had done to you when he was evil. That in order to save the world you couldn't save him. That that was the moment that had finally broken you and left you too weak to save the world again and had forced you to pack a bag and run to L.A. and then to Chicago and Seattle and Atlanta and Phoenix and Boston and then to Cleveland and Detroit and Denver and New York and countless roadside diners and small towns along the way and then to here.

Explaining all that, it didn't make you seem any less dangerous, any less stable, or any more sane.)

So instead of explaining all of that, Beth just looked out the window, able to see only her faint reflection and the darkness beyond. "Guess I just needed a place were I could rest. And this place definitely seems quiet, a little homesteady, maybe, but quiet. You know."

Ali laughed. "Oh yeah. This place is nothing if not quiet. It's like the grave."

"Well, graves aren't so bad. They can be pretty peaceful. Most of the time."

"You're a real sweetheart, Beth, but you are one odd girl," Ali laughed.

Beth sighed. "And you're exhausted go take a nap."

"Are you sure?" Ali asked, her large doe-eyes grateful.

"Yeah, I can take care of the ten customers that wander in here."

"Thank you," she said quietly, her eyes soft, before widening suddenly. "What if Russ finds out?" she asked. She needed the job, definitely needed the money.

"He's not going to find out. It's not like he's big with the stopping by in the middle of the night."

Ali looked down at her hands.

"Hey Rob," Beth called into the kitchen, "you going to snitch on Ali if she makes with some snoozage that she so needs."

Rob's chuckle boomed out from the kitchen. "You know I'd do anything for you ladies. Not going to go snitch to the bossman. Bethy, honey, whatever you girls gotta do what you gotta do. No matter to me."

Beth looked triumphantly at Ali. "See. Now, go take a nap."

"God Beth, you've got such a heart in you. You were meant for more than this diner, this town. God I just know it." She smiled. "I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"I know you will," Beth said, returning Ali's beaming smile with a tight one of her own, trying not to let her pain show on her face. Trying not to let the other woman see that the words that she had meant only in friendship had stabbed. (Like a sword through her lover's heart.) "Now go. There are some Zzzzs that need catching," she said, turning away.

She fiddled with the cash register as she heard Ali walking back into the kitchen. She took a deep breath, an attempt to force the pain, the tears, down.

(She was meant for more than this. But she didn't want to be. She didn't want to have to make those sacrifices. She couldn't endure that. Not even to save the world.

So she had walked away. Okay, run away. Away from her power. Away from her duty. Away from her friends and her family and her life and the world that needed her saving.)

She gripped the counter top to steady herself, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.


	2. Chapter 2

The bell over the door rang as a man slunk into the diner. It had been a slow night, painfully slow. Ali had been asleep for about three hours and only two truck drivers had stopped in. One had only ordered coffee and had stayed just long enough to chug the caffeine and use the bathroom. The other had gotten a cheeseburger, which he had wolfed down and was back on the highway in less than a half an hour. Both had tipped well. But even forty percent of not much was pretty measly.

So, Beth had been sitting on the stool by the service station idly flipping through an issue of _US Weekly_, (which was kinda very against the rules but there was no one here to tattle and nothing else to do) when the man came in. She eyed him carefully. He didn't look the usual late night type. He was youngish, his build slight but muscular, and definitely good looking, with strong, defined check bones and eyes that were startling blue. His black leather coat was a definite change from usual parade of plaid flannel that came through the diner. And his light blond hair, which she was positive that was in no way natural, was slicked back. He held a motor cycle helmet in the crick of his arm. Definitely not the usual suspect for these deserted parts.

She sighed. It didn't matter, he was just another wanderer. She tried to imagine what he could possibly be doing here. He had the cavalier air of a cross-country beatneck poet, all _On the Roady_, that didn't seem to fit quite right with the harsh bleakness of the desert. Not much for inspiration, for living, out there. But probably, like her, he was just running away. Or maybe he was one of the lucky one who actually had something, someone, to run to. That's all anyone on this road was doing. Either speeding toward something or running away from it. No one was here for the sight seeing. Especially not in the middle of the night.

He slid into a booth and Beth walked over with a menu. As she approached, she felt a tingling on the back of her neck.

It was a tingling she hadn't felt for a long time. At least since moving here. (One of the reasons why she had stopped running to cities was that there were too many vampires and demons and other nasties she didn't have name for but had figured out how to kill anyway. It had been too hard to resist her calling. She was tugged and prodded by screams from dark alleys and condemned buildings.

And as soon as she heard them she couldn't help but help.

It was in her blood to hunt, to kill, to slay. It was what she did. Had had to do to Angel. It was what she had run away from. She had abandoned her burden because it had grown too heavy to bear. She had given up duty and had sworn off destiny and had run away from slaying.

But she couldn't run away from herself.

Or the tingling on the back of her neck.

So, he was a vamp. Well, he wouldn't be getting a meal here. At least not a bloody one. But as long as he didn't bother anyone, she would let him go on his merry vamp way.) She wasn't ready to leave here yet.

Her pulse quickened for a moment as she thought of Ali alone in her car, probably deep in much needed sleep.

She focused on the tingling on the back of her neck. She was out of practice, but she was pretty certain that he was alone. No. He was definitely alone. And if he had killed Ali she would have heard a scream. (Even if it had been muffled, she would have heard. It seemed like she always heard them. Try as she might to block her ears, the slightest whimper roared through her brain. And then it was over for her. There was no running away after that. The scream pulled her back to herself. Her life. Her destiny. As much as she no longer wanted to be The Slayer, she couldn't let people die.)

"Just you tonight?" she asked casually, sliding a menu in front of him.

"That it is, luv," he replied.

"We don't get many Brits coming through here," she observed, her waitress smile plastered across her lips. At least he was alone. (If Ali was awake when he left maybe Beth would follow him and made sure that he left town without causing any arterial damage. Now it was just best not to let him know who she was, what she was.) "Passing through on your way to somewhere way better than this?"

He chuckled. "Always. Reckon you get plenty of drifters slouching on through toward Bethlehem and all that."

"We get our share. Anyway, can I bring you something to drink?"

He glanced at the menu, "Your tea is probably that bloody awful Lipton bollocks, isn't it?"

She nodded, a real smile cracking her exterior. (She had encountered plenty of vamps. They had wanted to rape her, kill her, end the world. One had even loved her, but he was gone and she had killed him. None of them had been all that concerned with proper tea. Although now that she thought of it, none of them had been real Englishy. That had always been Giles forte. But it was best not to think about Giles. Because he had lost as much as she had. She wondered if he too had run away. Maybe he had gone back to England. To get away from Sunnydale and all his memories there.)

"Sodding Americans," the vampire grumbled. "Well, I trust your coffee is at least decent." He eyed her and she nodded again. "Fine, a have a cuppa that then, pet. And, uh, some of those," he glanced down at the menu, "spicy buffalo wings, yeah? Feeling a bit peckish."

She nodded and murmured a thank you as she walked away, fighting the urge to turn around and look back at him, feeling his eyes lingering on her back, her ass.

The vampire stared at her as she walked away. Yeah, he was admiring her ass (it was a nice one as asses went and he had always been a bit of an ass man), but there was more to this bint than that. He couldn't bloody shake the feeling that he had seen her before. But try as he might, he couldn't place her. Yet, there was something damned familiar about the girl in a way that was, frankly, oddly comforting, despite the fact that his instincts were screaming at him to run. Not something he had expected to find in the godforsaken shack on this godforsaken highway.

He shouldn't have ordered the wings. He knew that. Should have just had the coffee, poured a bit of whiskey in to from his flask and be on his way. Miles to go and all that. The sooner he ferreted out those blokes the better. If he was caught out during the day, he was looking at one hell of a sodden sunburn. Fatal. Made the desert a pretty nasty place for a vamp.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew this woman. Or had known her once. Who knew how long ago. She was different. They always were. And he wasn't. He had changed his look over the years, had softened it a bit these last few, but the basic gist was the same Always the same. Timeless. Frozen. He might remind her of a man she once knew. A man who, by all rights, ought to be potbellied and middle aged by now. Lugging around his wife and two point five kiddies and a mid-life crisis and all that. That was a fate that he had avoided. Though he was not sure that those with his fate were necessarily better off. (Damned if you do, definitely damned if you don't, he thought wryly. He was surely going to hell, it was only a matter of time and luck before he was pulled down there. Didn't matter if he had a soul now and had saved the world a few times. He wouldn't escape that fate. Hell had a fiery pit with his name on it. He had seen it himself. Just a matter of time.)

She brought over his coffee with a small smile. "So where are you heading to?" she asked. She wasn't sure why. She normally didn't. It wasn't exactly of interest to her where every trucker who stumbled in was headed off to. For the most part they tended to be fairly laconic. Most of them, in fact, seemed to only barely register her existence. For all of Russ's leering and lewdness and insinuations, they tended to spend more time staring into their coffee cups than at her breasts. Which was really fine by her. But it meant that she didn't spend much time chatting with late night customers. Which, also, fine.

So, why had she asked this one where he was headed? (Because she so did not want to know. Did not need to start following, chasing after vamps. Once he left her town, he was someone else's problem. She couldn't be expected to police the world, could she? She was only one girl. One girl in all the world… No, she wasn't even her anymore. Hadn't been for a long time. As long as she had been running. )

"Somewhere," the vamp replied. God, why couldn't he place her? Not that surprising, really. (There had been hundreds of girls. Thousands even. Not since the chip and after the soul. But before that. And, god help him, those few weeks after when The First had forced him to play Manchurian Candidate. A few of the girls had managed to get away. Had watched in horror as he had ripped out the throats of her friends. Had seen him gorging on their blood, tearing away their life. He wasn't big on turning them. Only if there was some job he needed to do that he didn't feel like dealing with himself, then a minion could be right handy. For him it had always been about the killing. The animalistic adrenaline of the hunt, of sinking his teeth into his prey. Of relishing the struggle, their flailing limbs, the desperate attempts at escape growing weaker and weaker as the heartbeat grew fainter and fainter. Angelus had loved to torture, but he had just loved to kill, drink, and be merry.

Had this woman been one of the lucky ones? One of the few who had managed to escape the fangs of William the Bloody.)

But if that was the case then shouldn't she be terrified of him? (Even if she didn't remember his face, even if she had repressed the horror of his fangs, his grin smeared with her friend or lover's blood, shouldn't her instincts, at least, be telling her to be afraid, be very afraid?) Which this woman clearly wasn't. Asking questions about his bloody travel plans.

"Where are you coming from?" she asked. Why was she doing this? She didn't care. She just wanted him gone. (So that she could go back to pretending that it wasn't her job to kill him.)

"Around," was all he offered.

"Vague much?"

"S'all about building a mystery, pet." He took a swing of coffee. Awful stuff. He might have actually been better of with the sodding American tea rubbish.

"What is?"

"Life." He looked at her, tilting his head to the side. "But you know that, don't you? Where are you from anyway?"

"Here." He wanted to be all Mr. Mysterious guy? Well, two could play at that game. She could be just as withholdy.

"No, your not. You may be plenty of things, luv, but you're not from around here."

"People are," she replied defensively.

"People, yes. But not you," he drawled. How the bloody hell did he know this bint? And why did she get under his bloody skin in a way that, while maddening, was also, somehow, reassuring, familiar? Like they had danced this dance before but had stopped before the music had. And now they were fumbling through the steps again. He took a long gulp of coffee, almost finishing the cup. "Can I have a refill, pet?"

He didn't really want any more coffee. But he did get a nice view of her ass as she walked back to the coffee station. He needed to get the hell outa this place. Girl was making him bug-shagging crazy. When she came back he nodded a thank you, but did not say anything.

"I'll check on your wings," she said, feeling that she needed to say something, his silence unsettling her. She turned around and walked into the kitchen. It wasn't exactly like she was running away from him, she thought. Maybe just a little like running away. She needed a second to breathe. There was something about him that she found so irritating. In a really kinda comforting way, like she had known him and been annoyed by him before. (A way that reminder her of home. Sunnydale. Which might explain why she wanted to be near him. Because she had stayed so far away. And why she needed to stay away now.)

"How are those wings coming, Robbie?" she asked.

"They're coming. You can't rush deep fried perfection."

He had watched her walk through the swinging doors into the kitchen. She floated really, like nothing here had any hold on her. None of it actually touched her. Shit, he needed a fag. He took another swig of coffee, grimacing at the taste, before stepping out into the cold night air. Who'd have thought that the desert could get so bloody cold. Had a reputation for heat, but at nights a chill settled over the place. Hell bloody frozen over.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. It soothed him. That sodding woman in there was making him so jittery. He needed the cold desert air to clear his head and the smoke to calm him down. If only he could bloody place her, then this bollocks wouldn't be getting to him. But he couldn't. Every time he thought he had put his finger on it, she drifted away, taken up by smoke and wind and dust. Which was a problem, because he had bigger things to worry about than some bird in a diner, no matter how nice her ass.

Beth went back out into the dining room. "It will only be…" she began before realizing he was gone. "Shit," she swore, thinking of Ali. Alone out in her car. (Not even aware of the fact that she wasn't the top of the food chain and completely unable to protect herself.)

She ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon. "I, uh, need this," she said lamely in response to the weird looks Robbie was giving her. And she dashed outside.

She saw him, leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette. He turned to look at her, and seeing her kitchen utensil, he dropped his cigarette and ground it out beneath his boot. "Right then, a Slayer. Should have figured." Well, that at least explained the familiarity. He had been around enough of those bints for them to begin to feel habitual. And it also explained the uneasy unnaturalness of the whole thing. A vampire working with Slayers, it went against the natural order of things, which some deeply buried part of him knew. But, he never had been one for following the rules. Rebel with a cause and all that.

But what was a slayer doing here, in the middle of bloody nowhere. Maybe she had managed to stay off the Scoobies slay-dar. He would give Andrew a heads-up, let him flit in and initiate the girl and all that. For some reason the lad loved a recruiting road trip. Let him handle it. Get him out of his hair for a few days at least.

She moved toward him, her arm raised, ready to plunge the spoon into his heart. "Sorry, we don't do take-out," she said, springing at him.

His eyes widened as he blocked her attack. "Buffy?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Buffy?" he repeated, his eyes widening.

How the hell had he missed it. He was a stupid git. Had been face to bloody face making small talk with Buffy bloody Summers and he hadn't even noticed.

But he knew why. It wasn't until now, stake raised, looking for a scuffle, her bodying doing what was meant to do, destined to do, that her green eyes had come alive. Inside, waiting tables, her eyes had been dull, deadened, vacant. Had a far away look to them. She was there, but she wasn't. Not really. Not in a way that counted for anything. But now, they flashed, brilliant and vibrant and finally really present. And in that moment he knew her. This is the girl he remembered, had tried to kill, had helped to save the world. And then, he had heard (later found out for himself), had split the whole Sunnyhell scene and hadn't been back. Apparently to come to this godforsaken corner of America the beauty.

Also, the pun, of course. Queen of the bloody quips that one was.

Buffy bloody Summers.

Buffy froze. She hadn't heard that name in years. Elizabeth. Anne. Eliza. Beth. Liz. Anna. Even, once or twice, Summer, which had proved unfortunate and she had decided against using again. But not Buffy. Never Buffy. She could not bring herself to use her real name. So hearing it now had knocked the wind out of her. How had he known? Who the hell was this vamp? And why wasn't he tearing out her throat right now? She looked into his face, which oddly hadn't gone all bumpy. "Spike?" she gasped, memories rushing back at her, overwhelming her and making her legs all wobbly and her breath short and her palms sweat and her heart pound in a way it hadn't beat for eighteen years since she had run away and left everything she loved behind her. That night he had come to her. Told her he was going to help her stop Angel, to save the world. And he had helped her. He had gotten his ho of a girlfriend out of the way so that she could fight Angel and put a sword through his chest and send him to hell.

"Buffy," he repeated, his voice gruff and he reached out a hand (the other was gripping the wrist of her hand that held the wooden spoon, which went clattering to the ground) and touched her cheek.

She was struck by the tenderness in his touch, the warmth in his eyes. Why was he looking at her like that? It was giving her a major wiggins (and wasn't helping with the racing heart and clammy hands and wobbly legs). Sure, they had an uneasy, untrusting alliance in the end, but he had spent most of his time in Sunnydale trying to kill her. Definitely not the kind of relationship that merited a touchy reunion. In fact, it didn't merit any touchy. At all. None whatsoever.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, jerking away from him. (Using a little more force than she needed. His hold on her hadn't been tight and had loosened with his recognition of her, and part of her wondered if she wished it had been tighter, wished it hadn't been so easy for her to break away in the first place, wished that someone had held her firm and hadn't let her go.)

He shrugged, lighting another cigarette. "Like I said, just passing through, luv."

"You weren't looking for me?" she asked, suspiciously.

"As if," he replied casually, looking slightly offended. "Angel followed you like a whelp through most of the major American cities before packing it in and shacking up in L.A. He would. Oooh City of Angels. He would, pretentious git," he stopped, noticing her broken expression.

"Angel," she said, quietly, something between a question and a choke.

How?

"Right. And you wouldn't have known that." He ran his free hand over his hair. He had buggered this up. Bird hadn't even known Angel and his stupid hair had come back. This was not good. Should never have stopped here. It had been a very bad idea. Vampires didn't even need coffee. He had just been bored. "Yeah. Uh, he, um, he came back. Somehow got himself mojoed back from the great beyond. No one's quite sure how or why Captain Forehead managed the rerun, but there you have it. Broody's back in town." Probably not the best phrasing. But he had never been one to sugar coat things, had he. He had never known when to just shut up, didn't have much of a reputation for tact. Especially not when it came to Peaches.

"How long?" was all she could manage.

"'Bout seventeen years now."

"Seventeen years," she echoed. All those years she had been torturing herself for killing him, for stickingthatswordinhischesta ndsendinghimtohell and he hadn't been dead. And he hadn't found her either. He had given up.

"I think I need to sit down or I'm going to be sick."

He took her arm and led her inside. He was surprised by how much she leaned on him. It struck him how broken she must be to be depending on him. The memory he had of her was all spunk and fight and fire. (She had been almost as reckless as he was, almost as eager for a fight. He had wanted to kill her so badly, wanted her more than he had wanted any other Slayer. He had wanted to brawl and dance and drink deeply from her and lose himself in her flames. He hadn't been surprised when she had finally, really burned him. Fighting with her had been like flying to close to the sun. Not a wise choice for a flammable vampire. Liable to get burnt to a bloody crisp.) When they got inside, he saw that her eyes were dead again. "Look Buffy," he said gently. Too gently, Buffy thought. What was with this vamp? "I'm sorry," he said, which was about the sodden stupidest thing he could've but nothing else had come to mind. Words had failed him. (Which might not have been a blessing in disguise. Not that someone as damned as him got many blessings, but when he did, they were often the disguised kind. The kind that you didn't realize was a blessing until after you'd been taught a painful lesson, gotten to the moral of the story, suffered through the guilt and the penance and the trying to make things rights and the realizing that you never could.)

"It's not your fault," she said in a monotone. She heard Rob ding the bell which meant that her food was up. She walked mechanically to the window and picked up the plate.

"I was beginning to wonder where you had gone off to," he chided her. Then he looked up from the stove and saw her expression. "You okay, Bethy. You look pale, girl."

"Fine. I'm fine," she said, mechanically faking a smile before quickly turning away.

She put the plate down in front of Spike before collapsing in the booth across from him. She had mourned for Angel for eighteen years and he had given up on her in what a year. Two years. A few months. Eighteen years she had punished herself, had not allowed herself the luxury of love, of home, of life. Eighteen years she hadn't lived because she thought he was dead.

Plus, she wondered vaguely when she had actually stopped loving him.

She had gripped her guilt for so long, but somehow hadn't managed to hold on to love. Weird. All these years she had been carrying a torch for him without realizing that it had gone out at some point without her noticing.

And without that torch, she couldn't even see who she was anymore.

The tears came. She put her head between her hands and sobbed. She wasn't even sure what or who she was crying for. For Angel. For herself. For the mother, sister, daughter, friend she had turned her back on and run away from. For the woman she had abandoned, the woman she would never be, had given up on before she had even existed. Spike moved into the booth beside her (his hot wings untouched) and began to awkwardly pat her back.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing here. He barely knew this girl. But he did know that he didn't want to see her suffer like this. From the look of her she had suffered enough. Didn't like seeing her so down was all.

One of the disadvantages of being all soulful: actual sodden empathy.

He heard a noise and looked up from the sobbing Slayer to see a large man lumber out from the kitchen. "What you done to her, boy?" The man said, smacking a rolling pin into the palm of his hand. It would have been pretty comical to Spike, except that the rolling pin was unfortunately, dangerously, wooden. "Saw the look on her face and heard her wailing up a gale in here."

"Me?" Spike exclaimed, instinctively holding up his hands. "You think I did something wrong here? You've got the wrong bloke."

The man made a show of looking around. "Don't see anybody else here? Do you?" he said incredulously.

"He's fine," Buffy said between sobs. "He just messagering."

"So, don't shoot is what you're saying?" Robbie asked.

"Yeah. No shootage."

"Alright then. If you need anything, Bethy, you know where I am."

She smiled weakly. "Thanks Robbie."

The man gave Spike one more menacing look before heading back into the kitchen. "Well, that was a show, wasn't it?" Spike asked, arching an eyebrow. "Bethy, huh?"

Buffy shrugged, reaching for a napkin from the dispenser and blowing her nose. "Beth, really. Had to tell them something. It was different everywhere."

He nodded. He understood the urge to change names as part of running away from the person you had been. After all, he had invented a few nomenclatures for himself along the way. But she had managed to hold on to a least a piece of herself. Save one of the fragments that had been left about after everything that Angelus had done to her. (Like he had. Or at least he thought he had. That piece of humanity that he had kept, buried deep inside of him, repressed by the demon that resented it and the grandsire who had despised it. Not enough humanity to stop the evil, but enough that he fought for his soul once it was too late, after the damage had been done and redemption had become impossible.) She had clung to that at least. It was something. Not much. But something. (He supposed he was proof enough of that.)

Besides, she still had her instincts, if the wooden spoon she had almost driven through his heart had been any indication. That was something more.

He just wasn't sure exactly why he cared.

They sat for a few minutes in silence, broken only by her occasional sniffles. Such sad, pathetic little sounds that twisted his heart and his gut and made him feel bloody awful.

His hand was still on her back. She had not told him to move it.

After a while she spoke. "I don't… I don't know where to start. I mean. Why haven't you killed me, yet? Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Be all Slayer of Slayers-y."

He chuckled. "That hasn't been me for a long time, Slayer. Got me a soul and all." What would she say if he told her that he had help train a whole school of Slayers?

She looked at him in disbelief. "A soul? Like Angel."

"No. Not like Angel. First of all, I can shag without worrying that it will scamper off every time I have an especially good…" He trailed off, noticing her hurt expression. "And, besides, I fought for mine. Wasn't a curse for me, it was a choice."

"Why? Why would you ever do that?"

He shrugged. "Almost hurt a person I loved. Figured it was time." He looked down. "Couldn't risk doing it again. Not to her. Couldn't bear it."

"Drusilla?"

"No… no… not Dru. Haven't seen Dru for years," he laughed slightly. "She dumped me after our little alliance. Went to back to Sunnydale after that to, you know, kill you. Earn back some of my ruthless demon cred. But, of course, you weren't there. Went back a year later, after Dru had dumped me again. Thought you might be back and that killing you might make me feel better. You know, blood of a Slayer, the vamp equivalent of a pint of Ben and bloody Jerry's. You still weren't there, but the sodden Initiative was. They caught me, tranqued me, and chipped me."

"Wait," she shook her head. "The Initiative? Chipping? I feel like I'm feeling total out of the loopiness here."

"You have been away a while. And you know, Hellmouth tends to attract plenty of unsavory types. The Initiative was a bunch of government blokes. Decided to go all Dr. Frankenstein on the demon world. Didn't work out. The chip was how they Skinner boxed me. Behavior modification. Got a painful jolt to the brain anytime I tried to bite anyone."

"Doesn't sound too bad to me," Buffy said.

"No. I suppose it wouldn't. Suppose you would have been just chuffed to see me all toothless and housebroken," he eyed her. "It's out now, by the way. Almost cracked my skull in half with its sodden shocks. But yeah, first there was a chip. Then a soul. Then no more chip."

She looked at him, her eyes full of questions, her brain unsure which to ask. None of this made anything like sense to her.

"It's a long, bloody complicated, horror story, pet. Sometimes I can't keep the bollocks straight."

"I want you to tell me. Tell me everything," she said with a sudden fierceness in her voice that surprised him.

"Glad to see you've perked up a bit. But believe me, Slayer, there are things you don't want to know. That Angel bit. That's just the tip of the iceberg, yeah? And I don't think you want to know what's in those depths."

"No, I do. Everything."

He shook his head. "Can't do that, love."

"You seem to have a pretty good grasp of all things Sunnydale," she paused. "Talking to you. It's like, I don't know, like I'm going home again."

"You know what they say about that, luv." He eyed her for a moment, his expression searching and serious. "You can't."


	4. Chapter 4

"I know. That you can't. But that's just a saying right. All metaphorical and stuff. I mean you can go home," she paused before continuing, her voice shrinking. "Can't I?" It was halfway between a statement and a question, full of fear and uncertainty and the beginnings of panic.

"Friad not love. Sunnydale's sunk pet. Collapsed into the hellmouth. Closed the damn thing up, my work, actually, but didn't leave much of a home to go back to."

She felt her face fall, tears coming again to her eyes. Gone. The home she had run away from for so long, just gone.

"Surprised you didn't hear bout it," Spike continued. "Made national headlines. Some rubbish about a bleeding sinkhole swallowing her up."

She hadn't heard about it. "And everyone?" she said softly.

"Survived. For the most part. We lost a few in battle. No one you'd know, actually. Well I died, but it didn't take."

"Didn't take," she echoed.

"Came back as a ghost for a while. Haunted Wolfram and Hart for a while. Drove Angel nearly round a bend. Good times, those," he smiled languidly. "The got myself all recorporalized and almost threw my life away again on Angel's hair-brained plot to overthrow his bosses, Circle of the Dark Thorn or some equally affected rubbish like that."

"You worked with Angel. Like on his team."

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm all Team Angel. And I'm still not overly fond of the git or his stupid hair. But, yeah, we worked together to save the world and everything. Soul, now remember. Officially one of the good guys."

"Still trying to mind wrap around that one." She put her head between her hands. "God, I've missed so much. I can't believe… gone…" She started to sniffle again. Not with the violence of before, but with the silent and heartbreaking despair of someone who had lost something they had just imagined returned.

He couldn't do this anymore. This wasn't the bleeding mission. Wasn't what he had been sent to the middle of this middle of bloody no-where to take care of. This was supposed to be conducting a fairly routine heist, interrupting the transfer of a couple of mystical doohickeys that Willow had her eye on. Apparently the trinkets held some powerful mojo. The kind of magics that end the world if the wrong person or demon or thing got a hold of them. Red had wanted him to intercept them from a couple of demons who were planning to sell the amulets to a couple of other equally unsavory sorts on the black market. She had called him this morning, telling him that she had found out that the transfer was supposed to take place tonight in about an hour and fifty miles away. Plenty of time for a vampire who wasn't too keen on speed limits to make it there in time to interrupt whatever deal was going down and negotiate a more favorable transaction.

By which, of course, he meant that he was in for a bit of violence and slaughter and general good times. All sanctioned by Red, Rupes, and the other members of the Council. (Not that he waited for them to give him the okay every time he took on demons or vampires or whatever nasties came his way. That was definitely not on his style. But this was official business. A bit of freelance work to keep him in blood and whiskey and smokes for a few weeks.)

Which meant that he better not bugger it up. (Didn't want to piss off Sabrina. She only played Glinda for those who were on her good side, otherwise she was all flying monkeys. Not bringing home to the goods, letting them slip through his fingers and back onto the black market where they could do some real damage, hurt someone or lots of someones, end the sodden world (which seemed to happen with down right astounding frequency) was one way to get off her good side in a right hurry. And he had seen what happened when she went all Wicked Witch of the West. It wasn't pretty.)

(He wasn't sure what side bringing home Buffy would put him.)

He sighed. "Listen Slayer, do whatever you want. But as much as I would love to sit here with you and chit chat playing catch-up and the like, I have places to be, demons to kill, maybe a bint to save. You know, the usual heroics and all."

Buffy looked startled. "No," she said shaking her. "You can't. You can't just leave."

He stood up, pulling out his wallet, putting a twenty on the table. "Actually, I can. Time constraints, you see. Have to see a couple demons about a talisman or some rubbish. Fate of the world hanging in the balance, you know. Your old line." He glanced down at the money on the table. "Keep the change."

She blanched. Anger and sadness and desperation and aggravation and annoyance and shame and guilt and some other emotions she couldn't name at the moment overwhelming her.

He had been so nice. Weirdly nice. And now it was like all the warmth had left him and had left her doubting if he had ever had a soul at all.

He was being a bastard, he knew it. Falling back on old roles, playing the bit parts that he remembered. (Only he remembered them being a lot more fun. There had been a point when he would have, had indeed, relished in torturing her. Each dig, each barb had been delicious, softening her up for when he would sink his teeth into her neck and take her, end her, and drink deeply from her. He had never been as good at the whole bit as Angelus, but he had learned from the best.) Easier to act the demon than to answer the questions in those green eyes. Better to have her hate him now than to break her more than the world had already. She might be bored and dying and hoping that he, that anyone, would give her life some purpose again. Well, she had the wrong bloke, and it wasn't hope that he could give her but only more pain which she didn't look much like she could handle. It was for her own bloody good and she should be bloody thanking him, and this would be a whole lot easier if only she didn't look so damn hurt.

Or did look hurt. Now she looked angry. Scary Slayer angry. It was a look he knew all too well.

"How dare you? I gave everything to save the world," she hissed. "I sacrificed everything that I had that was worth living for."

"Yeah, well, I died and I didn't turn tail and give up."

"I died too."

"Yeah, for like a second. It doesn't count. I died and came back as soddening spook. Do you have any idea how much it blows to pull a Casper. But I kept fighting. And you didn't. So you can stay here if you like or move on if you'd rather, but I've got somewhere to be."

"Take me with you, then."

"What's that, luv?"

"Take me with you. I'm the Slayer. You're slaying. I can help."

"You sure about that? You've been out of the game for a while. Sure you're not all rusty, out of practice."

"I almost staked you."

"Well, you caught me off guard was all. I was minding my own business, having a smoke. Wasn't expecting a wooden spoon attached to some dust-thirsty bird coming at my chest."

"I can help… And then you can tell me everything."

"Not sure that a deal I'm willing to make. There are things, Slayer. Things you don't want to know."

"News flash blondie. The whole you-don't-want-to-knowness. Not exactly abating my curiosity. Besides, did it ever occur to you that just because I might not want to know these things, it doesn't mean that I don't need to. I mean, I know this might just be a coincidence, but something tells me that there is something a little bit fatey about you showing up here like this."

"Right. So I was sent here to show you that it is a wonderful life after all," he scoffed. "Listen, Slayer, you need to look elsewhere for ZuZu's petals, because this vamp's not got them."

"I'm not letting you leave without me."

She wasn't sure where this determination had come from. She didn't want to be the Slayer again. It had been too long ago. Another life. But one not so long ago that she didn't remember how hard it had been. She hadn't been lying to the stupid over-bleached vampire. She had given everything, sacrificed everything, in the name of duty and destiny and the good of the world and other abstractions that she didn't, couldn't, possibly understand as a girl of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and still didn't understand now. (And then when she thought that she had given everything she could the powers that be had demanded, taken, even more and had left her with nothing but the need to get away and stay away and not look back. But now she was looking back and she didn't want stop.)

She didn't want that life back. The one that she had refused to live, had spent her entire life running away from. She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she knew that she needed to be around this vampire (no matter how angry and sad and desperate and aggravated and annoyed and ashamed and guilty and some other emotions she couldn't name at the moment he made her).

He must have sensed something of this in her because he relented.

"Balls. Fine. Slayer, you can tag along. But we leave now. And you better not slow me down or get in my way." He tried to sound like he wasn't giving in to her (he suspected he always would), but he didn't think the gruff swagger bit was convincing anyone. "Or get yourself killed." He didn't need her death on hands just because he apparently had a soft spot for over-the-hill Slayers who wanted to come out of an early retirement. (He had too many deaths on his hands already. There had already been too much blood and pain and death because of him. Too much to atone for. All he could do now is fight the good fight and try his best not to inadvertently add to the body count.)

"I won't." She looked around the empty restaurant. "I just need a minute."

"One minute, then."

Buffy raced into the kitchen. "Robbie?"

"Yes, Bethy girl?"

"I need to go. I know my shift isn't over for few more hours but I need to leave. Now."

He looked at her, concerned. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"Doesn't sound all that promising," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"I know it doesn't. But it is. Or at least I think it might be. The point is that I need to find out. Which means that I need to go. Nowish." She paused. "And I don't know if I'll be back."

"You know that boy out there? You two go way back or somethin' like that?"

"Yeah," she saw Robbie nod, as if that one word explained everything. "Oh. No. It's not like that. Not at all."

"I'm not going to pretend to understand you, girl. But I will let Russ know that you had to take care of some personal business. And that you don't know when you'll be back. If you'll be back. But you listen to me, Bethy. You need anything, you give me a call, you understand?"

"Thanks Robbie." She said and then hugged him. And even though it was soggy (the kitchen was not exactly cool and Robbie's girth didn't do much to lessen perspiration), it was nice to know that he cared.

"You break my heart every time," Robbie said. "Good luck. And you remember, you need anything you call me."

"That was more than a minute," Spike said when she came up out of the kitchen. "Plus you smell like Jabba the sweat. I've meet sewer dwellers with a nicer smell. Just make sure you stay down wind of me."

"Real mature."

"So now that you've had a chance to coat yourself in Pillsbury's B.O. you're ready to go then?"

"Not quite."

"I thought I had made it clear that we are on a bit of a schedule here, Goldilocks. Don't have time for you to fuss around until it feels just right for you to leave."

"I know. Just one more thing. Then we can be off to face the terrible wizard of Oz, or whatever you have to take down." She headed out the front door. "What is this mission any way?"

"Nothing to exciting. Need to nick some amulets."

"Like magical bling?"

"That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Dangerous stuff though. Might not be then end of the world if we can't get it off the black market, but it is not going to be pretty. Anyway, the Council figures it's safer to get the stuff off the underworld streets, and figured yours truly was the vamp for the job."

"The council? Like the Watcher's Council?"

"No. The school board. Of course, the Watcher's Council."

She hadn't had much contact with the council, which she had personally been pretty pleased about. From what she vaguely remembered reading and from what Giles had said, they didn't seem like the types to reach across the supernatural aisle for much bi-partisanship. Giles had said something about them being too stuffy and old fashioned, which coming from Giles meant that the kettle had too be really really black.

"I don't know. They always seemed like they weren't the types to get much in the way of warm fuzzies when it came to creatures of the night. Seems odd that they would entrust something so important to a vampire. Even one with a soul."

"Yeah, well. I'm reformed and so are they. Ran into some nasty business a while back. Made some serious improvements in the leadership. Now we've got to go."

She wanted to ask him more and press him further and keep him talking and find out as much as she could her curiosity growing with every bean she got him to spill, but they had come to Ali's car in the parking lot. She was dozing, peacefully, Buffy was happy to see, curled up in a sleeping bag, the front seat of her car pushed back. Buffy hated to wake her up, to interrupt the other woman's much needed nap, but if she wanted to leave with Spike, she didn't have much of a choice.

Buffy tapped gently on the window and Ali's eyes sprung open. Years of motherhood had made her wake-up reflexes pretty spry. She threw the sleeping bag off of herself and quickly got out of the car. "Is everything okay?" she asked her eyes heavy with sleep, but her brow creased with worry.

"Everything is fine," Buffy said in a tone that she hoped was soothing. "But I have to go. I don't know when I'll be back."

"What? Everythings okay, but you have to run off into the middle of the night… with some man?" she seemed to have suddenly noticed Spike. "Who is this guy?"

"Brother," Spike said, offering her his hand, hoping to speed this along. "Younger brother." Red would not be pleased if he dropped the magic ball because of this rubbish. Didn't want to let her down. Plus, he had a reputation to maintain and letting two-bit smugglers squirm past him wasn't part of it. Wouldn't be very heroic, would it?

"I didn't know you had a brother," Ali said, looking at Buffy while limply shaking Spike's hand. "Why is he English?"

"Spent a lot of time over seas. Schooling and business and the like. After I lost touch with big sis here. But since I was heading through on very important business acquisition which we need to leave right now for, I figured I'd stop in and see how the old girl was doing."

"It's true," Buffy said. "Except for the big sis part." She gave Spike a pointed look. "He is actually much much older than I am."

"Well, you haven't aged half as well."

"Alright." Ali smiled. "You two definitely have the rivalry thing down."

"Good. Let's be going then. Lovely to meet you."

"Will you be okay here by yourself until the morning crew comes in?"

"Sure, Beth, I'll be fine. Will you be?"

"Yes," Buffy assured her. "Better than I have been in a while, I think."

Ali smiled. It was true. This was the happiest she had seen Beth. Ever. Whoever this man was, and it definitely was not her brother (women did not look at their brothers like that no matter how long they had been away. Ali had five of them, she knew), he had ignited a spark in her that Ali had never seen before. In fact, she had never really realized how miserable Beth had been until now that she saw her actually alive. She wouldn't be back, Ali understood. Even if Beth didn't realize it herself, Beth knew that her friend was leaving, with this man, for good.

"Okay," she said. "Be safe." She gave Beth a big hug. "Thank you so much for everything."

"So, it's hugs all around then, is it?" Spike said, interrupting the women's embrace.

"I know, I know," Buffy said. "We have to go. Broken record much?"

"Well, if you had better listening skills, I wouldn't have to be on repeat would I?"

"Take care of yourself," Buffy said to Ali, ignoring Spike. "I'll be in touch." (She knew she wouldn't.) "I can't wait to hear about Dean's first steps." (She knew she wouldn't.)

"You take care too. Good luck," She said, and then walked inside.

"Can we finally go, then?" Spike said. "Or you have more fond farewells to take."

"No I'm ready."

"Which car is yours?"

"I don't have one."

"Well, that's grand isn't it? How did you reckon you were going to tag along then? Because if you think you're going to ride on the back of my bike, you're out of your gourd." He glowered at her, he didn't need her slowing him down. (He wasn't thinking about her body pressed against him, her around encircled around his waist. Her legs, her thighs, grazing against him. He wasn't thinking about that at all no matter how easy on the eyes this slayer might be.)

Buffy rolled her eyes and walked farther into the parking lot, deeper into the shadows. "I said I didn't have a car. Tried to learn how to drive. Turns out Buffy and cars are, like, unmixy things. But this," she said, swinging her right leg over a Harley Davison, "it turns out I actually mix pretty well with." She had slipped on a leather jacket and a pair of gloves. "Well, weren't you all White Rabbity about how we are late for a very important date?" She gestured toward the road.

He grinned to himself, making sure that she couldn't see, as a swung his leg over his own bike. Bird was full of surprises. "Hope you don't mind a bit of speed, pet," he called over the roar of their engines. "We've got some of time to make up." And with that his bike screeched out of the gravel parking lot.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy loved being on her bike. It was the one thing that actually made her feel like she was really alive. Really present, really alert, really awake. Not just the empty shell of the woman she had once been. She closed her eyes for a second to savor the cold sting of the night air as it whipped against her face, her long honey-colored braid flying behind her. She liked the feeling, her body colliding with the desert air. It was harsh and hard and unforgiving and she loved it, needed it. (The excitement and the pain of it reminded her that she was still one of the living, that she hadn't quite died. Not yet. No matter how empty she might feel. That he might be dead, because she had killed him, but that she wasn't.

Except that now it turned out that he wasn't dead either. That he had actually been alive, living, all of these years that she had made herself a ghost. All these years she had been haunted by a man who wasn't actually dead, (even though she had still killed him.))

The vampire hadn't been kidding about going fast. She didn't even want to think of how many State laws they were breaking. But out here, on this lonely stretch of desert highway, she seriously doubted that anyone would even care. They were alone out here with only the moon and the stars and the sand and tumbleweeds. (She and this strange vampire who had wandered out of her past, reminding her, somehow, of everything she was missing by running away. She had started running away because she had given up too much, but he was showing her that she was losing just as much by running, that she had given up as much as had been taken from her. If not more.)

She pushed those thoughts out of her mind. She couldn't worry about the past or the future, only the present mattered for the moment. She hoped that this vampire hadn't been right. That she hadn't gotten rusty and would only get in the way. It would be a shame to die now. Now that she was finally feeling alive again. Maybe she was a bit out of practice, but she wasn't sure that it actually mattered. Wasn't sure that there wasn't something in her, that no matter how long she ran she would never really be able to escape because she took it with her. It was who she was, and no amount of running could change it.

(She knew that there wasn't an answer to that question. Most Slayers died before they could get rusty. Died before they could do much of anything at all. At least she had avoided it. All of that running had meant that she hadn't been caught off guard in some dark alley, been the dinner of some lucky vamp or the conquest of a fortuitous demon. One death had been enough for this Slayer's lifetime.)

The vampire had sped up, and she also accelerated. She didn't want him to think that she couldn't keep up. (Movement, running, this was what she was good at. That she knew.)

What the bloody hell was he thinking, letting her tag along like this? He was jeopardizing the mission by bringing her with him. He was supposed to be a solo act. Now he was going against all sorts of parameters and whatnot. It was a good thing he didn't give a damn about parameters. Never was one for following the rules. (Even those he had imposed upon himself. (Like no more Slayers.))

Besides he had a feeling the girl wouldn't have much trouble holding her own. She was right, she had very nearly dusted him. (As much as he hated to admit it. Never would aloud, anyway.) This was what she was born to do, not serving greasy hamburgers and burnt coffee to overweight truckers. She had forgotten who she was, and seeing him, somehow, had reminded her.

(But he wasn't sure that he wanted the blame for that. He liked to travel light and wasn't sure that he wanted her weight holding him down, holding him back. He had enough Slayer blood on his hands. At least she wasn't falling behind. If she kept up, this might actually end up being a grand old time.)

He accelerated and noticed that she quickly followed.

But he wished that she hadn't slowed him down so much to begin with; he was running behind schedule, and if he missed this drop, Red would be furious, she might even go all black-eyed girl at him. For a girl on the run Buffy was sodding sentimental. Like she was just aching to put down roots. Pity the wind kept taking her up before she had anchored herself to some semblance of a life.

He was cutting things pretty close. He grinned. At least that would make things interesting.

Another ten miles down the highway he saw a beat-up looking car pulled over on the side of the road. Red hadn't been big on specifics, but judging from the demon, dressed, for some reason, which may have included hiding horns and tale, in a conspicuous trench coat and fedora, leaning against the driver's side of door of the car and the dead body propped up in the passenger's seat, an almost embarrassing obvious smear of blood against the window, he figured this was his guy.

He pulled over to the side of the road, a cloud of dust behind him, which made Buffy cough. "Overdramatic much," she muttered to herself.

Spike was already approaching the demon.

"Hey, mate. Seems like you've got a bit of a problem here. You blokes in an accident?"

"What?" the demon said stupidly and Spike gestured to the dead man and the smear of blood. "Oh that guy, he's, uh, just resting."

Spike chuckled. This was going to be easy. Like taking candy from a baby. (Not that he had much practice taking candy from babies. Back when that would have been his idea of a good time he most likely would have just eaten the baby. Sod the lolly.) Red should have just sent a couple of her Slayettes to take care of this guy. No need to bother the top guns when the light artillery will do.

"Right. Don't imagine he'll be waking for a while," Spike said, theatrically eyeing the car. "Pity you spilt a bit." He felt the cartilage in shift as he put on his game face. "Such a waste."

The demon groaned. "A vampire. I don't believe it. Great. Mortifulan didn't say he was going to be sending a filthy half-breed to do his dirty work."

Spike scoffed. "Manners. Manners. You know old Morti, bit on this erratic unpredictable side, ain't he, mate?"

"You misunderstand me, _mate_," the demon said, putting emphasis on the word. Oh bollocks, Spike thought, he's trying to be clever. "I don't believe it."

"Right. You might want to practice you tone a bit, because that ditty felt a bit short on the sarcasm," Spike said. "But let's get straight to the violence then. Been a while since I had a bit of a tussle." He grinned as he charged at the demon who had ripped off the trench coat and lost the hat.

His fist made contact with the demon's face and he could hear its jawbone crack. He took the few seconds during which the demon was reeling from the pain to pull a knife from his boot. Would have liked a sword to deal with this guy, keep him at arm's length, but he had decided to pack light, didn't like to be weighed down.

The demon roared ran at him, his eyes ablaze with rage and pain and blood lust. Demon boy wanted the kill. These were the kinds of fights that Spike threw himself into. Everything was pain and instinct and fists and fangs and messy, unrestrained violence. (Faith had chided him about giving himself over to violence. That it meant he wasn't in control of his demon. Like she was one to talk.)

Okay. So baby had super strength was really fast and could shoot some sort of acid from its eyes. Still, no problem.

He was easily able to parry the demon's attack, sidestepping the onslaught, although he did get a bit of the acidy stuff on his coat. "Balls," he swore, knifing the demon in the gut. The demon crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach, clutching at the knife. Spike kicked him a few times for good measure, before rolling him over, dislodging the knife and then cutting off his head. Couldn't be too careful when it came to demon types. He then used the demon's shirt, which was progressively becoming more blood soaked, to wipe the acid off his coat. "Watch the leather," he growled.

He turned around, expecting to see Buffy watching him, with what he was imagined would be a expression of open admiration. (He would also accept grudging. She was a Slayer, after all. Right uppity those bints could be. Sometimes it felt like what he did would never be enough for the lot of them.)

But she wasn't there.

"Buffy," he called. And then he heard the sounds of a scuffle on the other side of the car. "Sodding Slayer," he swore. "If she dies, I swear I'm gonna kill her." (There was a time when he would have killed her. Had followed her, stalked her like prey, fantasized about ripping out her throat and drinking as her life spilled out of her. He wanted to destroy her, kill her, break her entirely and now he had found her, more broken than he could have ever hoped to make her, and he just wanted to save her, protect her from the things that would break her even more. Damned unnatural it was.)

He saw her holding her own against another demon. Guess they weren't as big a tossers as he had thought. They had split up in case of trouble. Which he was.

He watched with approval at the way she moved. (He had watched her before. She had danced at the club with her friends. Her body moving in time with the music. Seductive and inviting. He had seen her and he had known then that he wanted her more than any other he had killed before. That her sweet, young body, all bounce and movement and power just waiting to be released, would be his. She looked so luscious in that little halter top, low cut, open back. So deceptively weak. But he had known the strength so well hidden by that flesh, concealed by those curves, secreted by her sex and sweetness and smiles and youth and that had made him want her all the more. She was beautiful and dangerous, a killer, like him, and he wanted to dance with her until the music stopped for one of them.)

Her sweetness and youth and softness were gone now. She was all hardness and strength and sorrow but the old ease of violence remained. Her body taut and alive. Her movements smooth and graceful and deadly. It was in her bones, this power to kill. It ran deep in who she was. She was fierce and fluid and alive in the darkness and death. (Or who she was meant to be. But that might be now long past and no matter how much she might want to, she couldn't rewind and go back to when she was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Those days were gone. Her innocence and youth and virginity and home and doomed love for a vampire gone with them. Only instincts and forgotten strength remained.)

She managed to get behind the demon and break his neck the crack echoing through the silence of the desert.

(He resisted the urge to clap. Slow applause echoing the first time he had seen her fight. Had seen her kill.)

She walked toward him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, a part of her submerged for years finally fully awake again. A long suppressed hunger stirring within her.

"Like riding a bike. But, I gotta say," she grinned, "demons, they don't make 'em like they used to."


	6. Chapter 6

He shrugged. "You're not exactly seeing the finest the demon world has to offer. These lot were scraped from the bottom of the bloody barrel. Sodding sewer scum from the smell of them." And a long way from home, this desert was. Whatever these blokes were packing, they must be planning to get quite a pay day in order for it to be worth the trouble and the trip. Dealers like them didn't usually stray far from their turf, their comfort zones, which meant that they were looking to make enough quid for this little journey to have been worth the risk. Although, it hadn't been. Not for them anyway.

"We need to find whatever trinket they were trying to unload, and then we best be on our way before the buyer turns up looking to play let's make a deal," he said to Buffy.

"What are we looking for?" she responded, moving back over to the demon's dead body, holding her breath. The thing had smelled ungood while alive; now that it was dead, it smelled putrid.

"Don't have the exact specks. Reckon I'll know it when I see it. Like porn."

"If you dragged me out here so that you could score some demon dirty magazines, I'm going to be cranky. And you so would not like me when I'm cranky."

"Don't remember dragging you anywhere," he called back to her, making his way to his own demon. "In fact, I remember you insisting that you be allowed to accompany _me_ on _my_ mission." He lowered his voice, muttering as he went through the demon's pockets. "Sodding slayers. All the same. Damn pushy bints. And then, when things don't go exactly as planned, blame the vamp. I don't know why I continue to put up with this bloody bull—" He looked up to see Buffy's form blocking out the stars.

"Find anything?" she asked. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, and her expression made it clear to him that although he could not be entirely sure how much, she had heard enough of his muttering to be right pissed off.

"Naw, he's clean."

"So's mine." She wrinkled her nose. "Although, from the smell of these guys, I don't think either one of them has exactly been Mr. Cleanliness in a while."

"Yeah, well, plenty of demons are not the biggest fans of personal hygiene. Forgot about that, did you? Fancied this was going to be all brawling and glory and heroics? Forgot that in the fight against evil, there's a lot of dirty, and pongy, work to be done."

"You know, don't understand like every third word that comes out of your mouth. You might want to tone down the Britishiness, Blondie," she said as she stalked away back toward the bikes.

She hadn't known what to expect when she had left the diner with him. When she had left that temporary little life she had built to hold on to just long enough until the next wind blew in to take her away. She hadn't expected him to be at the center of that storm, and she hadn't expected to leave in order to go fight demons (again) and she certainly hadn't imagined herself rejoining the fight against evil (again). She wasn't ready to make the sacrifices that demanded (again). She hadn't wanted any of this, but it had found her in the form of an annoying and grating and infuriating and, of all things, self-righteous (which is part of what made him so irritating, this presumption that he, a vampire, had the moral imperative (and her suspicion that he might be right)) and hot (no, not hot, not hot at all) vampire who claimed he had a soul and who had swept her away back into the life she had been running from.

And she hadn't expected it to make her feel like this. She had just dealt death (okay, the guy totally deserved it, he was a demon and clearly up to something sketchy) and she suddenly felt present. She could feel the blood coursing through her, pounding in her heart and in her head, and reminding her that she was alive. For the first time, in a long time, she wanted to eat, drink, and be merry (because tomorrow she might die?). And for the first time, in a long time, she wanted to dance and it was taking all of her self control not to let all of this bubble up from inside of her and burst forth like warm champagne.

And that terrified her.

Because she didn't want to be a killer. She had killed too much already. (She had killed him. Except that he wasn't dead. And somehow that made things even worse.)

"Oh bloody hell," she heard Spike swear. He was standing next to the car. The front passenger side door was open.

He made her so angry and frustrated and confused (and feel something like hope (for what, she had no idea)), but she went over to where he was standing. "What seems to be the problem?" and then she gagged because she immediately saw the problem.

The guy in the car. His insides had been ripped out, but not removed. Instead, the hung tangled in front of his chest, like a string that just needed to be unraveled. Except that it wasn't a string. It was his intestines and other… things that she couldn't identify (she had passed biology, but not by much, and it had been half a lifetime ago). But the whole thing was super icky and she felt the bile rise in her throat.

Then she saw what had Spike swearing. A thick gold chain entwined the man's intestines, wrapping around them, squeezing them like a snake. The sight of the hard, cold metal wrapped around his intestines, shiny and pink and wet, made her gag. She took a step back.

"Poor sod," Spike said softly. "They did this to him while he was alive." He looked at Buffy. "We killed them too quickly," he growled.

"Why?" she said, the word catching in her throat. She didn't want this. She didn't want this horror. She didn't want to see innocent people, people who didn't even know that these kinds of monsters and nightmares and horrors really existed, be killed by them. This man, he never had a chance. He couldn't defend himself because he had no idea that these demons weren't the things of bad dreams and camp fire stories and video games, but that they existed and that they were real enough to prey on you, kill you, even if you never guessed the truth until their claws or fangs were already in you. She wondered how many of these people denied the existence of things that went bump in the night even then. Died not believing what they saw or felt because their belief in their unreality was so strong.

(How could she have believed that she could really return to that life of unbelieving once she had known the truth and had learned that she had the power to stop it, that she had she ability to protect people like this man.)

Spike must have seen the horror and the sorrow and the disgust etched on her face. "Get back to the bikes. I'll take care of this." And she saw his hands begin to work gently on the chain as he worked to disentangle it from the man's innards. It would have been easier for him to simply tear the chain free, but he didn't. And the care of his work struck her as odd and unexpected. The man was dead, what difference did it make? (Except that it did make a difference. It made all the difference. Because the man had suffered and been brutally killed, his body mangled, destroyed, and for some reason, this vampire, who was not supposed to care at all about humans, was supposed to feed on them and relish the kill, did not want to damage the man's damaged body any more.)

"Why would they do that?" she asked, unable to leave Spike's side as he worked (almost delicately) to free the chain. (Although it felt more like he was freeing the man.) "I mean I know, demons, so cruelty and killing, kinda their forte. But why make him carry it like that. I… I don't understand."

Spike swallowed, not taking his eyes off of the chain that was nearly free. "He wasn't a sodding jewelry box. He was a sacrifice. He was alive, when they did this to him. They were feeding him to… it." Red had warned him that this trinket would be nasty. He had shrugged off her warnings, because, well, that's what he always did. But she had been right. This was one nasty piece of bling. Evil and hungry, it would devour the earth and every soul on it (including his own) if the right demon chose to accessorize with it. And he had a feeling this Mortifulan fellow might just be the right demon. He shivered as he unwound the last bit of chain from around the dead man's lower intestine, glad that Willow had set him up with a magically enhanced lockbox, covered in runes and symbols. All he had to do was drop the damned (he sensed literally) thing in and it would be transported to an identical box in Willow's care. All beam me up Scotty. Now he just needed to get out of here before the big bad showed and get this zapped back to the council so that they could lock it up behind all their spells and wards and, he hoped, a solid measure of concrete.

"Nasty thing, isn't it." He held it up.

"It's a bit gaudy, really," Buffy said. "I mean, it is one thing to craft an amulet that can destroy the world, but did they really have to but did they have to put every jewel they owned on it." Rubies were arranged in concentric circles around an inky black jewel, which stared out at them like a pupil, sinister and unblinking. Buffy couldn't decide if the rubies reminded her of the jagged teeth of sharks or tongues of flame, but they were threatening, like they wanted to rip her open and burn her out.

"There is definitely something to be said for understated elegance," he replied, but his voice had a dreamy, far away quality to it as he stared into the center of the charm. (He could feel its power, pulsing, throbbing, straining to be free of its confines. And he could see himself freeing it, taking it for his own. And the demon inside of him roared for that power, struggling toward the blood and darkness held in that amulet. And he could see himself wearing it, the crimson of the rubies against the black of his tee-shirt, like a splash of blood, blood all around him as if he was feasting on it, bathing in it. Blood everywhere. And it was his for the taking with an army of demons at his back and women at his feet, willing, begging even for him to be with him. Women and she was one of them. He could have her too and he wanted to. (Have her, to drink from her, devour her, to be inside of her, to fill her as her blood filled him.))

"Really, I'd have nothing to wear with it," Buffy said, in that same far away tone. (The eye of the amulet was showing her to herself, but not her. Younger, her face still smooth and perfect, and wearing a black leather dress and a pair of killer heels (which actually went with the jewelry really well). And she was powerful and untouchable. It promised to make her whole again. It promised to make her strong. She was broken now, she knew that, but it showed her a Buffy that would be broken by nothing, by no one. And Angel (alive, he was alive, just like he was now, but with her and loving her) was there, and Spike too (which seemed odd) and they were both chained to her, so that they could never leave her. And they were shirtless and she saw herself run her hands down Spike's smooth, muscular chest, and she knew that she owned him and she could do with him what she would and she had a pretty good idea what powerful, unbroken, unafraid, Buffy wanted that to be)). She reached toward Spike, her hand grasping his, suddenly craving his touch (while still watching herself, pulling the vampire toward her, kissing him hungrily).

Spike felt her hand on his, her slender, but powerful, fingers, pulling his gaze away from the black center of the amulet and pull his soul away from its darkness. He looked past it, to her, and saw her biting her lower lip as she stared into its shadowy promises of power and strength and happiness, her eyes wide and unfocused.

"Buffy," he said, sharply. She looked up sharply, as if jolting awake. Then a blush rose in her cheeks.

"What the hell was that?"

He ripped off a piece of the dead man's shirt, and the violence of the action surprised Buffy after Spike had been so gentle, tender even, with the man's body.

He wrapped the amulet in the cloth, covering its eye, wishing Red had warned him that the damned thing (literally, now he was certain) would do that to him. "Powerful little trinket. Shows you what you want in high definition. Promises to make those dark, nasty little fancies we push back to the shadowy parts of the soul come true." He noticed the color rising in her cheeks. "Why what'd beam your way?"

"Oh, you know, power. No more waitressing. That sort of thing." She realized that she was still holding his hand and jerked it away.

He nodded. "It showed me blood. Well, that and bints, but mostly blood. Been off the juice since I got my soul shoved back in me."

She was about to make a crack about taking the blood sucking monster out of the boy but being unable to take the boy out of the blood sucking monster (not her best, she could do better than if she took another second or to think about it), but there was something about the sincerity in his eyes that stopped her. (She did not want to think that it might have had something to do with the image, the feeling, of his lips, so soft but so strong and so hungry and so tingly-inducing, against hers.) So, she decided against the quip (it hadn't been one of her best, after all).

Instead, she said something totally stupid. "And the, uh, bints?" she asked. The question was out of her mouth, fully formed, before her brain completely caught up. (Damn it. She should have gone with the quip.)

He grinned. "There have been a few of those. Since, I mean."

"Only a few?" Dumb question, because she didn't care, and she felt like they had much better things to be worrying about than his love life.

"Got myself wrapped up in a Slayer just before the soul. And a little bit after. Didn't take. And since then, just haven't found her. You know… the one, and all that. Figure now that I have a soul need a soul mate or some rubbish."

"I didn't know vampires cared about that sort of thing."

"Apparently, there's a lot you don't know about us. But we do. I do at least. Bit old to be sowing any wild oats, anyway. Especially since they won't grow." He cocked his head to his side. "Although come to think of it, for most blokes that'd be an incentive."

Buffy laughed, just as she heard the crush of desert sand behind them.

"I believe that you have something that belongs to me."


End file.
